Stains
by hujwernoo
Summary: Deathfic, told from a different point of view.


You never meant to.

That's the only thought left in your head, the only thing that you want to yell, scream to the sky until they listen, until they believe it, until you believe it yourself.

And it's not like you planned to, plotted it out to the last detail so that nothing would fall on you and you'd get away clean, so clean nobody even considered you a suspect.

So clean that two murders never came close to you.

You never meant to.

Your sister - your bigger, older sister you practically hero-worshipped - she always said you acted without thinking. You'd do something stupid, and she would poke and laugh, and you would yell something that wouldn't hurt a fly, and she would laugh harder. She did like to laugh.

Your sister was the first murder.

It was easy.

Just so...easy.

You don't care about the money. You don't care, because in a stupid accident you pushed your sister at the exact wrong angle to send her crashing down the stairs.

That's what they call it.

An accident.

They think she just...tripped.

You cry when the police come, but not for the reasons they think. They think it's because you just found out, while it's really because you feel relief. A miniscule grain of relief that they don't know it was you, and then the overwhelming, bitter shame that you feel that way.

And even that guilt is overshadowed by the second murder, the young lawyer.

You don't even remember his name, and it crawls under your skin that you can't remember, can't even grieve for a man with his proper name.

You never_ meant_ to.

It just slipped out, when you weren't watching yourself, when you were off guard and he said he was sorry about your sister. You knew he was sorry, that he hated to come and settle her will with you - and that's even worse, that she left money, a lot of money, always looking out for her ne'er-do-well little brother - so you weren't thinking and you let it slip.

There's still blood on the rug.

You have to clean it. It's still there, still showing faintly, still saying look what you did, even though you cleaned it three times already and threw away the broken ceramic jug that made his skull_ crack -_

You get out the cleaning supplies.

You never meant to.

It was easy this time as well. He rode a bike. No car...why didn't he have a car? He had a bike instead.

Why did it have to be so easy?

You see them, your sister and the young lawyer, their faces. Your sister didn't have time to be scared, she just looked surprised as she felt her balance tip.

The lawyer looked scared.

You remember that the most. He was scared. At the time, you didn't know why. You were scared. You had just realized what you said, that you had killed her.

Only now do you know why he was scared.

You're a murderer.

You never meant to -

What? Never meant to - what? Never meant to kill them?

You meant to kill him. You did mean to. Not your sister, but him - yes.

You can't even say you're sorry - who would you say it to? His friends? His family? You don't even know if he has any. You don't even know his name.

It was so easy to move his bike.

You know where he works - where his route back would be. You know it would brush him by a bad neighborhood. You know what the obvious conclusion would be if you left it by the river, with his empty wallet holding only his business card.

It shouldn't be so easy.

The police say it's a mugging gone bad. Of course they do. It's a bad part of town, where muggings are common and the river is a fantastic body disposal. You're the only person in the world who knows different.

They come to your house, of course. They know he was here, know he was working out your sister's will with you.

You don't bother to hide being upset, you know you couldn't hide it if you tried. You lie without a hitch, yes he came here, explained the will, left without incident.

You learn his name.

As soon as the police are gone, you throw up in the bathroom, and scrub at the bloodstain again and again.

It isn't right. Two people are dead, and you are not. Two is more than one, so, logically, you should be dead instead of them. You cheated, made an unequal bargain to save yourself.

You shouldn't have.

Another lawyer comes.

This one isn't like the young one. He's older, harder. His face -

His face scares you. It's blank, horribly blank and stone-cold as if he is switched off and knows he will stay that way forever.

You know him.

There were two pictures in the lawyer's wallet. One was of him and an elderly woman - and you cry at that one, because you don't know if she is still alive to hear what happened to the young man she looks so proud of - and another was of him and this man, this lawyer, looking mostly annoyed but just the tiniest bit amused at his colleague's wide smile.

Today, though, he is not annoyed and most definitely not amused. He is sharp and cold and you know he is straining to keep himself from screaming at the top of his lungs. Not at you, no, simply at people and the world and everything, but most of all himself.

You know this, because you feel the same.

You know this is your chance, possibly your only chance, even though you don't deserve it.

You say you're sorry.

It takes a moment for him to realize what you're talking about, and his face grows even colder than before.

He says thank you, and leaves.

He doesn't mean it. You know he doesn't mean thank you, simply fulfilling the required polite social answer, wanting to get out of here before the rage breaks free of it's tenuous hold.

That's okay, though. You would be sick if he meant it, because he doesn't know what you're really apologizing for, what you want to scream at yourself for.

You notice you haven't eaten since it happened, and clean the stain again.

Once, you open your fridge, and see the strawberries have started to rot, a sweetish, disgusting smell.

You have dry heaves for two hours, trying not to think about them and the rotting strawberries.

Then someone comes from the funeral home about your sister.

You do not sob, because as soon as they announce themselves you realize what you must do.

You send them away, and clear the coffee table. It has to be here, because you haven't sat on the couch since.

It has to be here, because the young lawyer was the one you meant to kill.

You can't decide what to write.

Everything else - everything - was so easy, but this is not. What can you write? Can you put into words everything you felt, everything you regret, everything you wished had never happened?

_I'm sorry,_ isn't enough, isn't even enough to begin.

_God forgive me_, you know, you _know_ you can't mean it, because this can't be forgiven.

You can't.

In the end, you write one word, and you know everyone will draw conclusions no matter what, but you don't care, because you will be punished elsewhere.

_Basement._

It hurts when you cut, but you press deeper.

And you finally see.

It wasn't easy.

It never was.

You look at the note on the coffee table, the note that will lead them to figure out everything, and your last wish is that the young lawyer will have a nice burial, your last thought is that you want your sister here.


End file.
